IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY morning, seven years ago. I bundled our son into his car seat and we set off for the babysitter. At the end of the driveway, I turned left and headed down the grid road. Karl, an astute five-year-old, said, "Dad, the road to the babysitter is a right turn. Why did we go left?"

I smiled indulgently. "We're going to take a shortcut and use the summer road, son." I checked the rear-view mirror to catch his reaction. Karl thought for a second, then furrowed his little brow.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Dad. The snow will be too deep."

With the smug, self-confident style of a southern preacher, I delivered my sermon. "Nonsense, Karl. We're not driving Mom's little Honda - we're in a man's vehicle. Our four-wheel-drive Suburban is king when it comes to handling Mother Nature. Just you wait and see."

We didn't have to wait long. We reached the end of the grid road as the headlights illuminated a weathered sign, "Summer Road, use at your own risk."

"Here we go, son," I said excitedly, switching the transmission into four by four. I'd just bought the truck in the fall, and this would be its first good workout.

"You see, Karl," I said, gunning the engine for effect, "you just need the right equipment to do the job!"

At that precise moment, the equipment failed. The truck shuddered to a stop, the engine sputtered and died. Flustered, I cranked the motor once, twice, and glanced at the fuel gauge. Empty.

"Daa-aad! I told you the snow was too deep." Peering from beneath a floppy-eared toque, Karl's angelic little face betrayed a look of disgust and exasperation.

"No problem, son. We'll be out of here in a jiffy." I hopped out and promptly sank to my knees in the gleaming drifts. A quick survey confirmed we were 40 yards up the summer road, stuck axle-deep in snow, and out of gas.

The wind picked up, tossing angry swirls of snow that threatened to extinguish the dimming headlights. I scrambled back behind the wheel feeling like a shipwrecked sailor awaiting the inevitable end.

"What now, Dad?" Pangs of guilt flooded me. How could I have been so stupid? No shovel. No cell phone. Now we needed help, but who else would be crazy enough to venture down this road in the dead of winter?

Suddenly the glare of 10 million foot-candles lit up half the countryside. As I turned to shield my eyes, the distinctive sound of a 1947 International diesel tractor pierced the frigid air. Out of the blinding light came a figure carrying our life preserver - a steel tow chain. My rescuer was decked out in full snowmobile gear. By the red beard jutting from beneath his hood, I knew it was my neighbour, Brad.

"The summer road, Mark? What were you thinking?" He turned to Karl, who was staring up at the big man. "You know, son, I've pulled many teenagers out of here. But I'd think your poppa would have a little more sense."

Karl pursed his lips, gazed my way and grunted, "Yeah, Dad."

That morning, I learned a couple of things:

1) Road signs are there for a reason.

2) If you have to eat crow, try it with a slice of humble pie.

- MARK BEHREND